brain’s a terrible thing,,to sow,Tussaud’s, –Ma’am? Well..Computers (really suck), ai, –check, mate!

We are all in this..there’s the politics, the pointilism..&the pointlessness! so you can’t sleep~~! and what if that’s the case? Well, typically, I, my self, I will get up and make coffee, black! and try and dredge up a decent poetic expression in the freshness of consciousness upon awaking in the pre-dawn hours, while the wife sleeps..and the cats, yet, also, arranged a-round, in a semi-circle..imperceptible life-forces, in suspended animation, plus a dog; and a chicken, the out-sider of the household, perched, in her KUSTOM LOG hen-house, with a slanted window view on the heavens each and every night, out back, there, better than ours looking straight out on the plain, but c o ld, for her, in winter, COMING SOON! (still looking for that firewood to get here, though).

But why, to waste brain, –on all of that? a terrible thing! Best leave the soil un-tilled for best results; rather than to plant and harvest or sow and reap, reap and sow..case of politics, rape and blow, ach! the brain! the brain has to die..the brain that couldn’t, –must!for the sake of the precious innards, and children, to blossom and bloom, reach for the light!the inward man, –or p e r s on, if you must! must die to self to give to others..it’s a principle, so why? why! am I up, up at this rude hour, conjuring these rude thoughts..upon which to build a poem, like a hen-house, fashioned from ancient stores of saved, dust covered materials, of a true character, ~~to dream, perchance to reap! (Thank you for the question.)

So we sit, in the dark night..but not that dark! You see, they,THEY! THE BIG THEY proclaim death, in the face of life..

“We’ll all be killed!! the planet,,just can’t sustain us, –or itself, no! not a minute longer.”

It’s unsustainable, you see, so they say. And they’re worried to death about all of that..plastic bottles, bobbing in the ocean, cars! cars, pumping out oil in the streets, leaky gaskets! bleeding their life’s blood all over the place, and to the detriment of man, oh! the duterium! –terrible! and me? I, my self, I go look out the window to look upon stars, with coffee-cup on hand and what do I see? all the pollutions of peoples’ lights they turn on and keep and keep going, all through the night! what are they frightened of, to burn their environmentally-safe, nurturing bulbs all the while they sleep? And it’s not only offensive, and doom..it’s waste! and senseless lot of it. But I remember, vaguely, now, the ranch,THE RANCH! before the computers took over..and all there was, to be had, was paper..reams of it (to write on,RIGHT ON!), and the pair of cats we took with us there, into oblivion,OBLIVION! far from the madness of a society fast turning inwards, perhaps even pre-FACEBOOK..no social media, if that’s conceivable, and there we were, at night, with the electrical generator shut down..at the flick of a switch! with a candle to read by. And write. No lap-top, no nothing! and no neighbors’ lights to interfere with the jobs of stars in the night skies, FREE! of pollution..from rude, not organic..light! Only the chickens’ shit threatened to shut down good old mother earth for us..that’s it! That was all we had to worry about, as far as our environmental concerns. The Ranch. And

..now I come to our friend Steve, who got us there..in the first place. I guess I really can’t talk about that without mentioning the role the county of san bernardino played in that..but let’s not. Just say this. I don’t hate them..but I seem to feel better when they’re not around. Steve..oh! how we miss him. He died and he went o heaven and he eviscerated himself out of our lives..and for that I will never forgive him. But at the same time I’m happy for him, not having to be here for this! (The Big This) Steve was..one of the big loves of our lives..he allowed us to breathe, –in a society, or a county, rather, where they hunt artists for fun..and are loaded for bear, on the taxpayers’ dime –in big bear! A place like that you can’t survive long without a serious friendship..or two. And Steve was one of those, in a small band of brothers, who shared our challenges, our pains..and our triumphs! And I have his cat, “Kracker” to remind me of him..Kracker, one of our nick-names, –Whitey, whatever. His true name is Eli, and white is his color. Is white a color..Steve, with us, was seeing the dawn of a new age racism – Anti-white – turned back at us honkies, –we honkies? In any case, it was a Kenyan who caused it (no names, please!) and a Kenyan who continues to ride the coattails of ancient hatreds, and loathings and revilings, streaming from the pits of hell..in fallen man.

But I wasn’t going to talk about that, I was recalling the ranch, and what it was like, –oh! and Steve got us there; for our season in the sun..and stars by night.

The chicken was laying on the dirt floor in the coop. Well what could I do? Mm..a lot! I picked her up in my arms and carried her upstairs to the study. And studied her, she’s..an old chicken. Elizabeth figures she’s seven. Now, for a chicken that’s a long life..especially if she’s a TYSON chicken. But she’s not. Here, she’s family. So I petted her, and found a nice box and put my muslin pajama-top in for padding and laid her down to rest. She put her head in the corner, deep. I attempted to correct her, by turning her a few degrees so she could have a view, but she returned to her first position, so I left her there. I Got her her chicken scratch, and a splash of cognac. She left the food, but took a couple sips of the beverage, it, –dribbled off her beak and onto her chest-feathers. That was kind of sloppy, to behold, but she was on the verge of going on, and over to eternity..so I won’t be critical about it. Next, thinking what might be pleasant, I selected a Beethoven piano concerto, whatever was the second record down in the box set and played it for her..the first movement (performance was the Cleveland Orchestra with Szell and Fleischer, top-notch). It seemed to do the trick. She appeared much relaxed. There are some very nice cadenzas, and the one at the beginning manages to do an impression of still having the orchestra tagging along, but its just the pianist all by himself, faking it, and it goes on awhile, before opening the gate for the orchestra to get back in there. Later on, there’s another cadenza that is just dreamy! and it incloses everything piano that came before, and has gone on, since, –Even Liszt would have to concede..that! Simply, it is just magic, –shoe-glue for the ears, sealed for a life-time guarantee, nothing will ever separate you, from those moments of audible bliss! Done. Now the cat wants to know what’s up..your feathered friend is passing, stupid! Next question. So why do we have to ever part with our loved ones, what is up with that!

I petted her, and went on working on my essay..ese! I petted the cat. He wouldn’t get out of my face..everytime I’m coming out with a work of genius he’s walking on my mac, AND MAKINGTHINGS..very difficult, getting between me and the keys. He’s so soft and furry! Of course he wants me to feed him, and that may take awhile. Oh well! The next morning she was a bit stiff, and cool to the touch. I dug a hole by the picket-fence, and later that afternoon we put her in, after I re-cleaned the hole that some gopher had fouled, cutting across, coming off of his tunnel, and so on. I made a home-movie about us giving her her service. ~the End

ps: she was a good chicken..had been at the bottom of the pecking-order, but somehow, won the lottery, last of fifty. God rest her.

Q: Given all the Socio-economic political terrorisms BEING LEVERAGED against us..what with The covid, COV! COV! and all, can we ever look forward and expect to have another deal like the WOODSTOCK art&musci festival, peace&luv?, –ANSWER: YES, It’s handled, It’s been arranged, LIVE! TONITE ONLY: DEAD SUSPECTS..BRAY-FART..SHEEP THRILLS! y Los Contaminantes del Norte! Plus Special Guests: TEN-4; also, THE SAMUEL DRUCKER EXPERIENCE (More to be announced as the ‘artists’ continue to get signed, don’t miss it, this the concert of the century..tickets, while they last!)

What happens when you eat ice cream. (Yes, that’s a statement.) I don’t know what happens to you, then, but when I am getting it out the dog hears the freezer door open and comes right over there by me. She’s a golden retriever more or less, I don’t know if that’s important; but she hears everything (like magnetic door-gasket seals separating from the ice-box going, “KRACKLE!”). Dogs and poets are like people..who like ice cream. Hooked! (they are). Greeks didn’t make ice cream because they got no ice, ’cause over there the weather’s nice; and there were poets, too..and flies! like cause and effect; which didn’t go unnoticed by THEM! the Greek’s they had the scientists, too, believe you/me, –though, could all be false (lies). But anyway I guess they invented the poetry (da Greeks did it didn’t just invent itself). Poets don’t tell it like it is, they tell you a story..about WHAT IT IS (brother). Philosophers – immortals, like James Brown: “It’s a ma-a-an’s world..” – did all the hard brain work and poets do what comes easily, naturally..the clean-up; and that touches on philosophy, but is not bound by it. Well philosophy is great, up to a point; until it is consumed by its own rules (weighing upon the SOUL). Where is the fun in that? Poest,POET’S! poets connive to figure out how to bypass the rules, and people hate that about us. “Well we have to do it like this so why shouldn’t they?” Good poets are few. And they hate all the bad poets. Why? because the bad poets suck all the oxygen out of the room whenever the awards are being handed out..for the poetry (for more on that see Rod McKuen; whose name is a bad poem by the way I think I think you..should think about it). The Unknown Poet probably, when no one was looking, will donate a turd, in lieu of a word. Is that called concrete poetry? Maybe..after it hardens, some (might take a few days). Is it any good? turd, at the gate; ‘stead-o’-words, like on a scrap of paper..Mate?? Only the gods of poetry know that; but taken as a HOLE, and left for the philosophers, or linguists to decide, it may be brilliant! or just sour grapes. I believe that’s a fable, from the Greeks of course! most of our stuff IS, left-overs from an estate sale set up on the Mount Olympus, nothing new under the sun, beating down on the heads of all us poet-centaurs hanging out, pen in hoof amid buzzing of beehives, cemented, UP! in limbs of trees, lazy spring afternoon..fawnskin’s goat, –get yours? did I, did I?? But as for the common volk (another word for common is vulgar), TURD, that is something to think about. Turds, like words (a rhyming pair the hobbyist-poet Benjamin Franklin fancied) can have many meanings..and shades thereof; but you will aks/ask yourself, “Is that a dog-turd? If so, then we accept; but IF a poet’s turd THEN we hate it..because we hate poets” (because they reject rules and get away with it and it’s unfair; and we hate THAT about THEM.) So! to know the difference you have to have somewhat of a discriminating palate; else you are plainly just another run-of-the-mill plebeian, eating your plain Greek yogurt..no fruit, no nuts. But it’s just raw material after all, having no value or even an existence until one of the gods changes it, by making it into something, with an effortless output of divine energy..maybe add little honey; or changing it, from its sort-of earthbound condition..like, like when a man-poet starts his finger-painting project, tentatively smearing at it a bit, –or even a girl doing it, a girl poet! poking at it wit-a-shtick, “Oy!” But that’s getting into the nebulous area of PERFORMANCE ART’s a thing to be avoided..egregious! all philosophers agree: VOTED Worst Art (genders and sh**s-for-brains notwithstanding). So! now, getting back to what happens when you eat the ice cream..not YOU,you personally, but rather, the figurative YOU, the collective YOU..the humanity all around us/you’s, which, “..oh! the humanity!” which..well, I don’t know about all of that, oarawluvyooz; but only I, poet! what happens with me when I get da ICE CREAM. So here it is

totally. This gets to the science, BELIEVE SCIENCE! (you must). So, as we are told by the neurologists, when you taste the ice cream, and you’re like, going, “MM! MM! mm-MM-mm!” you are not actually having a direct experience with the product on the spoon, no! it’s far more complicated than that..sure it is. ByContinue reading “What happens when you eat ice cream. (Yes, that’s a statement.) I don’t know what happens to you, then, but when I am getting it out the dog hears the freezer door open and comes right over there by me. She’s a golden retriever more or less, I don’t know if that’s important; but she hears everything (like magnetic door-gasket seals separating from the ice-box going, “KRACKLE!”). Dogs and poets are like people..who like ice cream. Hooked! (they are). Greeks didn’t make ice cream because they got no ice, ’cause over there the weather’s nice; and there were poets, too..and flies! like cause and effect; which didn’t go unnoticed by THEM! the Greek’s they had the scientists, too, believe you/me, –though, could all be false (lies). But anyway I guess they invented the poetry (da Greeks did it didn’t just invent itself). Poets don’t tell it like it is, they tell you a story..about WHAT IT IS (brother). Philosophers – immortals, like James Brown: “It’s a ma-a-an’s world..” – did all the hard brain work and poets do what comes easily, naturally..the clean-up; and that touches on philosophy, but is not bound by it. Well philosophy is great, up to a point; until it is consumed by its own rules (weighing upon the SOUL). Where is the fun in that? Poest,POET’S! poets connive to figure out how to bypass the rules, and people hate that about us. “Well we have to do it like this so why shouldn’t they?” Good poets are few. And they hate all the bad poets. Why? because the bad poets suck all the oxygen out of the room whenever the awards are being handed out..for the poetry (for more on that see Rod McKuen; whose name is a bad poem by the way I think I think you..should think about it). The Unknown Poet probably, when no one was looking, will donate a turd, in lieu of a word. Is that called concrete poetry? Maybe..after it hardens, some (might take a few days). Is it any good? turd, at the gate; ‘stead-o’-words, like on a scrap of paper..Mate?? Only the gods of poetry know that; but taken as a HOLE, and left for the philosophers, or linguists to decide, it may be brilliant! or just sour grapes. I believe that’s a fable, from the Greeks of course! most of our stuff IS, left-overs from an estate sale set up on the Mount Olympus, nothing new under the sun, beating down on the heads of all us poet-centaurs hanging out, pen in hoof amid buzzing of beehives, cemented, UP! in limbs of trees, lazy spring afternoon..fawnskin’s goat, –get yours? did I, did I?? But as for the common volk (another word for common is vulgar), TURD, that is something to think about. Turds, like words (a rhyming pair the hobbyist-poet Benjamin Franklin fancied) can have many meanings..and shades thereof; but you will aks/ask yourself, “Is that a dog-turd? If so, then we accept; but IF a poet’s turd THEN we hate it..because we hate poets” (because they reject rules and get away with it and it’s unfair; and we hate THAT about THEM.) So! to know the difference you have to have somewhat of a discriminating palate; else you are plainly just another run-of-the-mill plebeian, eating your plain Greek yogurt..no fruit, no nuts. But it’s just raw material after all, having no value or even an existence until one of the gods changes it, by making it into something, with an effortless output of divine energy..maybe add little honey; or changing it, from its sort-of earthbound condition..like, like when a man-poet starts his finger-painting project, tentatively smearing at it a bit, –or even a girl doing it, a girl poet! poking at it wit-a-shtick, “Oy!” But that’s getting into the nebulous area of PERFORMANCE ART’s a thing to be avoided..egregious! all philosophers agree: VOTED Worst Art (genders and sh**s-for-brains notwithstanding). So! now, getting back to what happens when you eat the ice cream..not YOU,you personally, but rather, the figurative YOU, the collective YOU..the humanity all around us/you’s, which, “..oh! the humanity!” which..well, I don’t know about all of that, oarawluvyooz; but only I, poet! what happens with me when I get da ICE CREAM. So here it is”

Cats are kind of a design miracle, you know? poetry in motion, as it were! They start out in a pile..squeaking blobs of wet fur, squirming inside a cardboard box lined with towels (or blankets), –eyes taped shut, fighting over a teat; and next playing army all over the house, springing an ambush from around the corner of a chair..with conspicuous scratches to the upholstery; or taking out a machine-gun nest at the top of the curtains, clawing his way to the top, carrying a hand grenade..in the skin of his baby teeth! then, a little dry food with a milk chaser. Eventually Mom cuts them off, they’re on their own, now..in front of the supermarket, confined, once again, to a cardboard box; and a sign hung on their stiff little necks: FREE KITTENS “Mom! Mom!! can we keep this one? Ohh, pleeze, he’s so cute!” A horrible fate; but then it sure beats a free one-way ticket to the research-lab’s. And there’s always the not unlikely chance that that kitty-cat will be the next king, sweet-smelling in his fur..sweet as his own spit! and an early retirement. New ruler of the old neighborhood:

~c. “Here, kitty-kitty!”

Published by scrunchymacscruff

Thank you

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